The Popularity Spell (8 page)

I
fall asleep mad, but I wake up early—earlier than my alarm even—feeling just fine. Who cares about Terri when today Sam and I might become popular?

Unlike a normal morning, when Dad has to yell at me two or three times before I'll pull my comforter off my head, today I jump out of bed and get dressed, say “good morning” to Marty and Millie, and then go make toast for my morning peanut butter and jelly sandwich. When I throw my knife into the sink and it makes a loud clang, Dad yells from his bedroom, “Cleo, what are you doing?”

“Making breakfast!” I shout back. “Want some?”

I don't hear his answer, but a few minutes later he slowly walks into the kitchen in his underwear and a T-shirt, with his hair messed up and thick glasses on. “Don't make us late, Dad,” I warn him.

“You're in a good mood, considering how you were acting last night,” he says.

“Oh yeah.” I'm not sure
what
to tell him about last night.

“That's all you can say? Oh yeah?”

“She was touching all the stuff in my room,” I try to explain. “Like my monsters and my robots, and she didn't ask.” I don't mention the voodoo doll.

“Well, there are better ways to deal with something like that,” Dad says. “You need to apologize the next time you see her.”

I don't know about that, Dad,
I'm thinking, but I just nod.

“She really liked playing the game with you,” he tells me—which means Terri is kind of dumb because I wasn't that nice to her then either. “I'd like you to give her a chance.”

“Okay!” I say, impatient. I don't want to talk; I want to go to school! “Are you ready to go?”

“Give me a couple of minutes, for Pete's sake,” he says. “What's the occasion?”

I'm sure Dad has no idea about the hex, but I'd better stop being so excited or he's going to realize something is strange. “Nothing,” I say. “I've got a lot to discuss with Samantha. You know, our science projects and stuff.”

“Well, let me make my coffee and we'll get going.”

“Okay, but hurry!” I shove the last piece of PB&J into my mouth and run down the hall to get my backpack and jacket. I go and sit in our car and open my notebook to the stuff I should have read for Focus! class over the weekend.

Dad finally comes out of the house and drives me to school. When I get to our classroom, I look at Samantha and I know we're thinking the same things:
What's going to happen to make us popular? What is Madison going to do to embarrass herself? How will it happen? When?

It's super hard to concentrate in any of our classes because I can't stop looking over at Madison. One time she catches me. She doesn't stick her tongue out because she's eating her lightly salted kale chips like a perfect princess, but she shoots me a look that everybody knows—the look that says “What do you want, weirdo?” I turn my eyes away, and a second later I hear a cough!

Sam and I look at each other. Maybe a lightly salted kale chip is getting caught in Madison's throat and she has to cough it out! Even better, maybe Kevin will have to do the Heimlich and grab her around the stomach and squeeze hard to force it out of her! We tried to learn the Heimlich maneuver at my old school. It was totally embarrassing to practice on each other, and it would be way worse if someone had to use it on you in class for real. Everyone would see the piece of food come flying out of your mouth, and what if it landed on someone and…?

But Madison's not coughing anymore.

At lunch, Sam and I watch carefully as Madison exits the cafeteria line and walks toward her table. She stumbles a tiny bit.

“Did she trip? Was that a little trip?” I wonder out loud to Sam.

“If you have to ask, it's definitely not embarrassing enough to count.” Sam is frowning. She's disappointed and so am I. If nothing happens to Madison today, we may have to decide that pizza day was a coincidence. But Uncle Arnie said it was real, and I want to believe him. Our popularity hangs in the balance!

Late in the day, Kevin says it's time for the Focus! kids to head to our classroom. Scabby Larry jumps out of his chair, like there are hundred-dollar bills waiting for us there. Sam and I, we take our time. We're in no rush.

I expect Madison to make a comment about me and Scabby Larry going to Focus! together, but she's actually standing up too. I guess she needs to go to the bathroom. It would be great if she got stuck in the toilet and they had to call the janitor, and the whole school gathered around and it ended up on the TV news. Now
that
would be embarrassing!

When we get to Focus!, there's the usual noise and activity because kids from all different grades are arriving and settling in. Roberta tells us to take our seats and quiet down because we have a special presentation today.

“I know it's difficult to believe that you can achieve your dreams when you're a kid here in middle school,” says Roberta. “But this is where it begins. If you start accomplishing goals now, you'll get used to doing it. Then you'll do it your entire life and be as successful as you want to be! So I would like to introduce you to a middle school student who is exceptionally focused on realizing her dreams. Most of you probably know her. Please welcome Madison Paddington.”

The classroom door opens and Madison struts in like a celebrity on the red carpet. Everyone in class looks at each other like the Martian king has landed or Pandaroo has jetted in on his trail of rainbows. Why in the world would Madison be here? Maybe she hit Roberta's car with her bike or killed Roberta's cat or something and owes her a favor. Otherwise Maddy Paddy would never set foot in the Focus! room.

Madison stands up straight and proud next to Roberta's desk as Roberta says, “Madison is here today to share some of the great ways she manages to achieve her goals.”

Samantha leans over to me and whispers, “My goal is to be mean and nasty to people, and I achieve it every day!” I laugh so loud I can't help snorting. Everyone looks at me, including Madison.

Roberta makes a squinty-eyed face at me as she says to everyone, “Please, let's give our fellow student all our attention.”

Though none of us want to, we all quiet down. Madison doesn't look nervous at all to speak in front of the class. “When Roberta was looking for a student to talk to the Focus! class, of course everybody thought of me. I have been an achiever from a very young age. One of my goals is to be the captain of the high school cheerleading squad, so in second grade, I started cheering for the local peewee football team. Unfortunately I fell from the top of a human pyramid. I told the coach that the girls on the bottom row were too small to hold the rest of us, but the coach didn't listen to me so I didn't go back the following year. I still plan to try out for high school cheerleading, though!”

That's not such an inspirational story.

“My mother wants me to be famous one day,” Madison continues, “so my parents put me in acting classes on the weekends. I've had small roles in community theater shows. It means I hang out with adults a lot of the time and don't get to spend much time with my friends, but I guess I don't mind because I'm learning the craft of acting and it will look good on my résumé if my dad ever lets me audition for commercials, which he won't yet!”

Hmmm. That story doesn't sound any better.

Madison keeps going. “As many of you know, I have won the Friendship Community School penmanship competition almost every year since we learned how to write.”

Okay, well, I guess that's pretty cool, if anybody wrote things down on paper anymore. If I didn't hate—I mean,
strongly dislike
—Madison so much, I might be happy for her and all her accomplishments. But I'm not.

“If you want to accomplish your goals, you have to be organized,” Madison is saying. Then, out of nowhere, there's a sound—like my stomach gurgling when I'm really hungry, or a stretching cat with laryngitis meowing long and loud.

Everyone kind of looks at each other, like
What was that?
But no one says anything. Madison continues, saying, “I have goals for each day, each week, even each hour.” Then we hear it.

FARRRRR­RRRRR­T!

Sam glances at me. I feel like everything around us has stopped, including Earth turning on its axis.

I look at Madison carefully. She has a really uncomfortable look on her face. Her eyes are big and she moves just a little bit, like her butt is clenching in her tight jeans.

This has got to be it! Sam and I look at each other in shock and unbelievable happiness. At least part of our hex is working! Uncle Arnie is right. My dad is wrong. Voodoo is totally real and my life is better already because I'm feeling so happy!

Madison forces a sick-looking smile and keeps going. “I have a bulletin board at home with cards of things I want to get done. I also put up pictures of things I like and places I want to go someday, which help inspire me….”

FARRRRR­RRRRR­RT!
This one is longer and louder, and it's even more obvious where it came from. Samantha and I are too shocked to laugh, though everyone else is starting to.

“Kids, calm down. Let Madison finish her presentation,” Roberta says, but she can't help herself from making a face because now she's
smelling
something really bad like the rest of us are. It's a cross between a dead skunk on the side of the road and a bologna sandwich that's been left out on the counter until it's green around the edges.

“Roberta, could I…come back another day? I don't…feel well,” Madison says, as we all hear the next
FARRRRR­RRRRR­RRRRT!
Now bursts of laughter start popping like firecrackers out of people's mouths, even if they're trying to hold it in.

Madison doesn't run out the door—she's too cool for that—but her feet move very quickly and I can tell her body is extremely stressed…especially her butt cheeks. Roberta watches her go, then turns to us, looking confused. I guess she doesn't know what we should do now that our special presentation has skittered away, leaving nothing behind but a bad smell hanging in the air. I almost feel sorry for her.

But not quite.

“Quiet down, everybody!” Roberta shouts, then tells us to grab some index cards and markers and make the kinds of cards Madison talked about. She says she'll be right back, and then she runs out the door, looking like she's tightening up a smile. After she's gone for a few seconds, the class finally explodes with the laughter they've all been holding back.

When it calms down a little, Samantha pipes up, “That was the best presentation ever!” That makes everyone crack up again. People nod in agreement and start saying the same kinds of things to each other. For the tiniest second, it feels like we're part of the crowd.

Samantha and I don't have to talk; I know what we're both thinking.

Is this the beginning of being popular?

W
hen I get home from school, I run down the hallway to my room, sort of hearing Dad shout that I should take Toby on a walk around the lake. “I will!” I yell back, but first I get the voodoo box from under my bed. I open it and the voodoo doll is lying right where I left him, exactly the same, but it almost looks like he's grinning bigger than usual. I pull him out and dance around my room, thanking him (inside my head, not out loud) for making the charm work on Madison today. Lying on the floor, I gently and carefully put him back and slide the box where it belongs—way under the bed, far from nosy people like Terri.

“Terri's coming over for dinner tonight,” Dad says, his voice getting closer along with his footsteps. When I look up, he's standing in my doorway.

“Okay,” I say. Even this news can't upset me too much, not right now. I feel like I'm filled with helium and could float to the ceiling. I keep remembering the moment Samantha made her little comment and everyone cracked up. For one instant, it felt like popularity.

“Good, I'm glad you think so,” Dad says. “What are you doing down there? Chasing dust bunnies?”

“Ha ha, yeah.” I stand up and dust my jeans off. “No, I—um—thought Toby's leash might be under there.”

“It's in the front hallway, where it always is,” Dad says. “Come on, I'll help you get it on him.” When he turns around, I follow him, almost skipping down the hall.

Dad puts the leash around Toby's neck as I hold him in place. I pet his long red fur and let him lick my face and neck, telling him what a good boy he is.

When I head out the door, Dad tells me, “Get home way after dark, talk to lots of strangers, and don't call if there's an emergency.” That's his way of being hilarious. He can actually see me from the kitchen window as long as I only walk two blocks and turn around. He even got me a phone when we moved to California. He says it's for safety, but I'm glad because all the kids here have them. So far he and Samantha are the only people I've ever called or texted, but that's definitely going to change when I'm popular.

Toby seems as happy as I am as he barks at the birds flying above us. We cross our street at the corner after I look both ways; then we're on the sidewalk by the lake. It's got little tiny waves because there's a cool breeze, and the sun is making diamond-looking sparkles on top. Maybe these are the kinds of things Mom said are magical. And today, after seeing what I saw, hearing what I heard, and smelling what I smelled, it feels like magic might be possible. I definitely know voodoo is. I mean, Sam and I aren't quite popular
yet,
but there's only so much that a Positive Happy Voodoo Doll can do in a day.

Back at the house, I can hear Dad and Terri talking and laughing in the kitchen. I don't want to see Terri yet, so I let go of Toby with his leash on and head straight back to my bedroom. Dad hears me and says loudly, “Wash your hands and get ready for a sumptuous repast!” I guess he means dinner. He's showing off by using big words for Terri—and by asking me to wash my hands. I don't usually do that; why would I today? I run my hands under some water in the bathroom sink so he'll hear the water, but I don't use any soap.

There aren't any towels in the bathroom, so I go to my room and dry my hands on my comforter. As I'm walking out the door, I stop to check on Millie and Marty. But something is wrong.

Marty isn't moving. I poke her a little with my finger and try to tempt her appetite with a piece of old apple, but I know what's going on. Marty, as they say on TV shows, “is gone.”

I take an extra close look at Millie and he's doing fine, squirming around in the grass acting like there's nothing wrong. Maybe those two weren't very close.

I close my eyes tightly and make my mouth hard so I won't cry. I don't know exactly why I'm feeling like this. Marty was just a millipede, a little wormlike creature. She wasn't energetic and fun like Toby, or fluffy and adorable like a bunny or a guinea pig, but she was still my pet and I took care of her like I was supposed to. I walk to the kitchen, where Dad and Terri are in the middle of making dinner. He's got garlic sizzling in a pan and she's slicing celery as some kind of old-timey music from the eighties plays in the background.

“Dad,” I say real seriously. They don't hear because they're trying to figure out the lyrics from some song about balloons.

“Dad,” I say louder, and they both turn. “Marty died.”

Terri looks worried. “Who's Marty? Someone you know?”

“My millipede,” I say.

“Well, it's a good thing we bought two!” Dad makes it sound like a joke, but it's not very funny. Terri must not think so either, because she says “Bradley!” in a kind of harsh way.

“Is the other one okay?” Dad asks, his voice softer now.

“Yes. But I'm sad. I don't know why; I can't help it.”

Terri puts down her knife and wipes her hands on a rag on the counter. “Cleo, do you want to get Marty and do something nice for him?” she asks. I blink my eyes hard and nod. I don't bother to tell her that Marty is—or was—a girl. “Why don't we give him a proper funeral and say a few things on his behalf?” she says. “You could wrap Marty up in a little piece of paper or material or something. Carry him really carefully to the backyard. I'll get a shovel from your dad, and we can dig a hole and say goodbye.” Normally I'd be mad that she's being so friendly, but I'm too sad to be mad. We agree to meet in a few minutes.

I look around in my underwear drawer and find a soft, silky scarf that my mom wore when I was a baby. It has little Eiffel Towers and French poodles on it, and Dad told me she thought it would be neat for me to wear when I grew up and traveled the world.

I pick up Marty gently and wrap her in the scarf. I walk past Dad in the kitchen. He's still working on dinner. “You okay, Cleo?” he asks. I nod without saying anything. “Do you want me to come outside too?”

“No. Terri and I will do it.” I don't want too many people around.

In the yard, I can't believe what I see. There's a candle flickering on the grass and Terri is finishing digging a hole. Marty won't take up much room, so it didn't have to be too deep.

I hold out the scarf that's holding Marty.

“Is that him?” Terri asks.

“Her,” I say. “I found out she was a girl after I named her.”

“Well, Marty's a good name for a girl too.” Terri looks down at the hole, with the light from the candle making patterns over it. “Why don't you gently put her in the ground?”

I take a deep breath and get down on my knees. I gently slide Marty out of the scarf and into the hole. I look up at Terri. “Do you want to say anything?” she asks.

“Just that I loved her, I guess.” I can barely get the words out because I'm trying not to cry, but the tears are falling no matter what my brain is telling my eyes.

“It's okay.” Terri holds out her hand and helps me stand up. I could have done it myself, but it's still a nice gesture. “I'll say something if that's okay,” she says. I nod, and she looks down at the hole in the ground. “Marty, I'm a little scared of creepy-crawly animals, but I know that you were a great one because Cleo loved you. I'm sorry I screamed when I first met you….”

“That was Millie,” I tell her.

“I'm sorry I screamed when I first met your friend, but when I held you—or your friend—today, I realized there is nothing to be afraid of.”

At that moment, I feel a hotness in my feet that moves up through my whole body like a lightning bolt in a thunderstorm. “What are you talking about?” I ask. My face feels like it just caught on fire. “You
held
Marty? When?”

Terri suddenly has a worried look on her face. “Today,” she says. “When you were walking your dog.”

“His name's Toby!” I say angrily. I know that's not important right now, but it matters to me. “What did you do to her? What did you do to Marty?”

“Cleo, I didn't do anything. Your dad brought me into your room….”

“Into my
room
?” What was Terri doing in my room? Why is she with my dad? Why is she forcing herself into our lives when we're fine by ourselves?

“Well, in the doorway. He didn't want me to be so scared of the millipedes, so he put one of them on my hand. It only crawled on my hand for a second; nothing happened. It was—”

“
She
was! Marty was a
she
!” I'm yelling now and I'm crying too, but now I don't care because these tears are mean, angry ones, not sad ones that I don't understand. I run into the house and through the kitchen. Dad obviously hasn't heard anything; he's still singing and slicing and cooking. “She killed my millipede!” I stomp through and keep going. “Your
girlfriend
killed Marty! I hope you're happy!”

I run to my room, slam the door shut, and throw myself onto my bed, crying loud and hard and wiping my wet face on my bed. After a few minutes I tire myself out and just lie there breathing.

Finally I sit up. I'm sick to my stomach and scared to check on Millie. But I know I have to. My feet feel like there are ten-pound weights on them, but I pull them across the floor anyway. I look into Millie and Marty's—now only Millie's—terrarium.

Everything is fine.

I pull up my chair and watch him for a while. He slides through the dirt and bark and nibbles a little bit on a brown piece of banana. He looks lonely.

I have to listen hard to hear what's happening down the hall in the kitchen. The music is off and I can hear Dad's and Terri's voices, but I can't tell what they're saying. Then I decide I don't care and I lie back in bed, looking at the ceiling.

I must fall asleep for a little while, because the next thing I hear is a light knock at my door.

I sit right up. “What?” I ask angrily.

“Can I come in?” Dad asks.

“Are you alone?”

“Yes, Terri went home.”

“Good.”

“So can I come in?” he asks again.

“Yeah, I guess.” I'd like to make him wait, but he's going to get in sooner or later.

Dad opens the door but doesn't come in too far. “Listen. I'm really sorry about what happened to Marty.”

“It's not your fault. It's hers.”

Dad takes a step closer to me. “Cleo, I know how mad you are right now, but that is not true. Terri didn't do anything. Marty crawled on her hand for a couple of seconds. No different from how you and I have played with her. It's no one's fault. Do you understand that?”

I start to cry. “But why? Why did Terri have to touch her? Why did Marty have to die?”

Dad comes closer and sits on the floor by my bed. “It happens, Cleo. Sometimes pets die when you least expect it. Maybe it was just her time.”

“But millipedes have a life span of five to seven or seven to ten years, depending on what website you look at,” I tell him, sniffling in between the words.

“That's the problem, Cleo,” Dad says. “You don't know when it's going to happen, and lots of times there's no reason at all.”

“But I hate it.” I pause. “I mean, I don't like it.”

Dad smiles a little. “No, it's okay to hate it, Cleo. It's really hard. The only thing you can do is keep living your life the best you can, and make sure that when that person looks down at you from heaven, she's proud.”

“You mean millipede,” I say.

“Yes. I mean millipede.” Dad has little tears in his eyes, just around the edges.

I didn't know he liked Marty that much.